


With Tired Souls, We Slept

by hudson



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hudson/pseuds/hudson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and L.J. try to survive surviving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Tired Souls, We Slept

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal 10-26-2007. Written during Season 3, so AUish. Character deaths take place prior to the beginning of the story.

**Title:** With Tired Souls, We Slept  
 **Fandom:** Prison Break  
 **Characters:** Michael, L.J. (Gen with vague shades of Michael/Sara)  
 **Prompt:** 081: How?  
 **Word Count:** 5,945  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Summary:** Michael and L.J. try to survive surviving.  
 **Disclaimer:** Paul Scheuring and a whole lot of other people who aren’t me own Prison Break.  
 **Spoilers:** Through 3.04  
 **Warnings:** References to character deaths. Angsty boys angsting. Some crying. Platonic bed-sharing. Overuse of dashes and ellipses (and the word "angst").   
**A/N:** I didn't include anything about where exactly they are or how they got there, as it's not really relevant, but if it helps, I picture them shacked up somewhere in Australia, down the beach from Duncan Kane. Also, I stole a couple of ideas from thelana during [this](http://mooyoo.livejournal.com/89838.html?thread=1250542#t1250542) conversation.

-

They don’t talk about her much.

Scratch that – they don’t talk about her ever.

L.J. tries a few times in the beginning. Well, that’s not entirely true either – in the beginning neither of them speaks much at all.

They have a house and food and supplies and a nice little corner of beach, and during the first two weeks he and Michael exchange about a dozen words, all of which center around cleaning and settling in. Once they are settled, however, L.J. almost wishes that they were still on the run.

The house is old and somewhat rundown. No one has lived in it for many years, L.J. is sure, and that’s probably why they were able to get it so easily. There’s a kitchen and a living room and a bathroom and three bedrooms, and the moment they enter it L.J. falls into one of them, expecting to sleep for a week. Instead his mind begins pouring over every detail of the past few months, touches on every prick of pain, every splatter of blood, every set of lifeless eyes that are permanently lodged in his memory. He buries his face in the scratchy surface of his balled up jacket and pretends to be asleep when Michael comes to check on him, then releases the tears that want so desperately to escape from his eyes and eventually falls asleep.

He lasts about three hours and it’s the longest period of continuous sleep he’s able to get for weeks.

The first week after their arrival is spent almost entirely in silence, and L.J. realizes – what exactly can you say now? Grief seizes at his throat constantly, with every breath he takes, but there’s no way to put his horror into words. There _are_ no words for what he’s seen, and he spends the first week tucked safely away on that beach, in that house, desperate for the threat of capture and death to once again occupy his mind. The two of them kept going through their loss and pain, kept pushing forward even after his father had fallen. They fought to survive, and now that they have L.J. can’t remember why they fought so hard.

His father died in a flurry of bullets and with a heated plea lingering on his lips for Michael to care for L.J. The violent scene rivaled that of his mother’s death, and the image of blood escaping his father’s mouth follows L.J. into his dreams. It’s horrific and so much worse when he wakes up in his bed and remembers that he doesn’t know how to live anymore.

The pair of them exist like ghosts for the first few weeks, moving around each other in and around the house without any real purpose as the days crawl by. L.J. finds a stack of dusty, graying old puzzles and board games in a closet one morning early on, and immediately gets to work putting together a picture of the Eiffel Tower. He spends weeks going steadily through each one, quietly and systematically fitting each piece into its place as he tries not to think about his parents. He’s been tense and restless, unable to sit still, and even with a table full of puzzle pieces laid out before him he’s jumpy. He attacks each puzzle with a nervous fervor, arranging the pieces hurriedly as if his life depends on their order. But it helps; he’s finally able to sit still and concentrate on one thing while his mind usually wants to go in eight different directions.

He likes the puzzles and likes the feeling of doing _something_ while his uncle spends each day sitting outside staring at nothing or sleeping through most of the daylight, but when L.J. comes to a puzzle with a picture of two kittens and can’t find four of the pieces that make up their ball of yarn, he loses it. The pieces aren’t in the box and they aren’t on the floor and they aren’t stuffed between the sofa cushions and they aren’t mixed in with any other puzzle that he can tell and he suddenly starts crying great big snotty, slobbering tears. It’s just about the stupidest thing ever and he can’t stop them. He kicks over the table and sends the puzzle pieces scattering across the room and stalks away, wiping at his eyes, when Michael appears to investigate the commotion.

They don’t fight because they don’t speak and each keep to themselves and stay out of the other’s way, interacting only to eat meals in silence. It feels as though he’s been tapped of all his energy, and there’s only just enough to spare for reminiscing about his time in captivity and to wish desperately for his mother, along with the occasional anguished outburst.

L.J. spots a dead fish that has washed ashore behind the house late one afternoon, and he bursts into tears at the sight, runs inside at Michael’s questioning look and spends forty-five minutes weeping in the shower for no real reason that he can discern.

After the water has run cold and his tears have run dry, his cries little more than choked back snuffles, he steps out of the stall and scrubs a hand over his damp face, grabbing a towel from the rack behind him. He thinks of his mother reprimanding him for always leaving used, wet towels in a soppy mess on the bathroom floor, and suddenly he’s crying again, knees buckling so that he’s crouched low on the floor, trying desperately to breathe.

Part of the roof is caved in over the third bedroom. It looks pretty bad from the outside; a gaping hole stares at the sky and several shingles connecting the roof that covers the other bedrooms are hanging on just by a thread, but from the inside of the house it’s hardly noticeable, especially when both men are torn up so much worse than the house and grieving with a kind of blazing intensity. The roof goes unnoticed, and neither of them really goes in that room anyway.

On the morning of their twelfth day L.J. wakes to find his uncle sitting in the sand halfway between the house and the ocean, staring out with his arms draped across his raised knees. L.J. stares out at him for a long while, watching as the sky grows dark above them and white, shapeless clouds turn deep gray.

“Uncle Mike?” L.J. calls out, and the words sound almost foreign to him, his voice scratchy and dull.

Michael flinches at the words and then lowers his head a bit, and as the clouds open up and the first drops of rain fall he barely moves an inch. Rain begins to fall harder and heavier and more steadily, and Michael raises his head to look back out at the ocean. L.J. wonders for a long time what he’s seeing and tries to push away the cold, aching fear that springs up through his gut. Michael is all that he has left, and when he was a child L.J. relied on his uncle always to be there for him in a way that not even his father ever was.

Michael was always there, always a protective and guiding force at L.J.’s back, and he’s all that L.J. has left, and the thought terrifies him. Especially as he watches his uncle watch the sea and knows that he’s studying those growing, stormy waves and the way that they crash against the beach, probably calculating with that funky brain of his how quickly and easily they could crush a man caught in their grasp.

Michael comes back inside hours later, once he’s been thoroughly soaked to the bone, and they don’t talk about it because they don’t talk about anything.

Sara sits with L.J. in his dream one night and talks to him free and easy from her perch upon the foot of his bed, telling him without the frightened hitch her voice carried in life that things will be okay, his uncle is smart and crafty – and she actually uses the word “crafty” which makes him laugh softly and without much energy, dropping his head to gaze at his tightly fisted hands – and his father is strong and brave, and they’re both fighters and they make quite a pair, huh, brains and brawn, very different but so obviously cut from the same mold, and L.J. doesn’t have to be scared, they’re going to come for them, and has he ever been to Thailand? She hears it’s great.

And then he looks over at her and her head is in her lap, and he tries to scream because oh _**god**_ , her head is _**in her lap**_ , but the sound dies his throat every time he tries to push it out, and he never actually saw what happened to Sara with his own eyes but at this point his imagination is quite capable of conjuring up the most horrific of images, and Sara’s head is staring up at him with lifeless eyes and she’s not speaking anymore, her mouth now hanging open in something grotesquely reminiscent of a scream, and he feels a shriek finally break free from his lips, and now he can’t stop it.

He screams and screams until he feels arms wrap tightly around him, and he wants to fight them, but then it’s his uncle’s soothing voice in his ear.

“I’m right here, right here,” Michael repeats softly, his mouth moving gently against L.J.’s temple. “Shh,” he breathes and holds L.J.’s shaking frame against his own.

L.J. tries to ignore the rapid heartbeat he feels beneath his uncle’s chest pressed against his shoulder and focuses instead on the strength of the hands holding him, latches onto Michael’s strong voice. It conjures up memories from his childhood, of stories read to him by his uncle as he drifted off to sleep, and long walks through the city with his hand clasped tightly in Michael’s as he explained to L.J. all about building structure and architecture.

And it hits him so suddenly and powerfully that another shudder is wrenched from his body, how much his uncle’s voice reminds L.J. of his father’s – that comforting timbre, so familiar to him even after long periods of absence and through years of anger and disappointment – and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut to prevent any tears from falling, turning his head to press his face against Michael’s chest.

“I know,” Michael whispers. “I know. I’m here.”

L.J. chokes on his breath and his mind stutters over Sara again as he hears noises coming from himself that sound like the wails of a child while Michael holds him closer and tighter and doesn’t let go, and somehow L.J. falls asleep.

Because the next thing he realizes, light is streaming through the threadbare curtains hanging in the windows and L.J is curled tightly against his uncle, Michael’s arm resting across L.J.’s shoulder. L.J.’s knees are pulled up against his chest and he feels so very small.

Michael doesn’t ask him about it later – there’s no pressure to reveal details of the dream, no grilling him on how often his nightmares occur, nothing at all, and at first L.J. is grateful when they both return to their mutual silence.

But the lingering images from the nightmare bounce around his head without any outlet and try as he might to think of anything other than his father’s bloody face or Sara’s fearful eyes, his mind is drawn to them like a beacon. Two nights later he wakes again, alone in the darkness of his room, and his screams are louder than Sara’s were just before she died. Within minutes Michael is there next to him with a soothing hand on his shoulder, and L.J.’s screaming quiets. He stops shaking thirty minutes later, and within an hour he’s back asleep.

The next night it’s the same deal, and then again a day later. Michael is always there within minutes, and at first L.J. wonders if he’s been waking up from his own nightmares, but then realizes that his uncle spends a good bit of each day sleeping – or lying in bed pretending to sleep, at least – so he’s probably awake during the night anyway.

“Shh, shh,” Michael whispers softly against L.J.’s hair. “I’ve got you, I’m right here.”

Never _it’s okay_ , because it’s really, really not. Never _it’s going to be all right_ , because they don’t know that it will. Never even _you’re safe_ , because they were both safe once and it’s not much of a comfort to be reminded of how easily that safety can evaporate. His uncle knows exactly what to say on nights such as these, and on the fifth such one L.J. has a surge of resentment as he wonders why Michael can’t offer any sort of comfort in the daytime.

“She was really brave,” L.J. ventures the next morning over breakfast.

Michael freezes and drops his spoon.

“I was really… but she talked to me a lot, tried to keep me calm, you know?” L.J. tries to go on, hoping that maybe if he breaks the ice then they can talk for just a little bit and maybe his uncle will have some deep words of wisdom to repair some of the emotional wreck that L.J. has become, because adults usually do. And Michael is one of the wisest people L.J.’s ever known – surely he must have some bit of comfort and support that he can offer his nephew.

“She talked about you a lot, said you – ”

Michael gets up and leaves the room.

There’s another nightmare that night – they’re becoming a regular occurrence, and L.J. can’t figure out why – and as he’s falling back asleep with Michael beside him, he thinks he hears “I’m sorry” pass by his uncle’s lips.

The next day L.J. sleeps until noon and wakes to the sound of banging coming from overhead. He stumbles sleepily outside to find Michael perched atop the roof, hammer in one hand and shingle in another, nails poking out from between his teeth. L.J. stares up at him for a few minutes, watching him struggle to balance all of the items around him, before going back inside to shove on his sneakers. He comes back out a moment later and climbs the latter resting against the side of the house, then crawls precariously across the roof while Michael watches him with wary eyes, until he’s sitting across from his uncle. He takes the nails and hands them to Michael as needed, and spends the afternoon listening to the ocean and the banging of the hammer upon the roof.

That evening Michael drags a mattress into L.J.’s room and it’s there that he spends the night. L.J. sees blood coating his hands while he sleeps, but doesn’t even get the chance to yell out when his uncle is there, shaking him awake. His body shudders and trembles as Michael rubs a hand up and down his back and begins speaking.

“Your dad used to do this for me when we were kids,” he says, and L.J.’s ears perk up at the unusual tumble of words from his uncle’s mouth. “I had trouble sleeping through the night, even when we were really young. It was worse after our mom died. Had nightmares all the time. He used to climb into bed next to me, hold onto me, let me cry or whatever else, even when I was too old to need my big brother to calm me down after a bad dream.”

There’s a long pause and L.J. feels that he should say something, but he hasn’t a clue what, and he bites the inside of his lip as he tries to think of something.

Another beat and then Michael continues. “Did I ever tell you how I learned to make a paper crane?”

And really, L.J. has always figured that he’d just read a book or something like everyone else on the planet who knows how to do simple origami, but he closes his eyes and lets his uncle’s words lull him back to sleep.

He tries again the next day.

“I think she really cared about you. And Dad, too, she talked about you guys liked she’d known you forever.”

Michael has a stricken look and again he exits quickly from the room, leaving behind his half-full cup of coffee and a confused L.J., who sits for a moment staring after the empty doorway his uncle has just walked through. He then sweeps a hand angrily across the table to knock the coffee mug and its contents onto the floor with a loud clatter. He storms out of the kitchen and into the living room, leaving the mess on the floor. Michael spends the day sitting on the beach and L.J. works on a puzzle, and that night Michael is there again within seconds when L.J. sees Sara begging and pleading for her life before her head is ripped from her body and he wakes with a cry and a burst of fresh tears.

Two days later finds the pair back atop the roof to finish patching the hole, and Michael suggests taking a look at the pipes inside the bathroom and kitchen after they’ve finished up here.

“They’ve gotta be pretty old, worn out,” he says softly as he concentrates on the hammer and nail in front of him. “Couldn’t hurt to replace them.”

L.J. furrows his brow. “You know anything about plumbing?”

“Not much,” Michael shrugs. “A little. We could get a book.”

“And… teach ourselves how to fix pipes?” L.J. gives the barest hint of a breath-filled laugh.

“Yeah, well, I figured we’ve got plenty of time to figure it out,” Michael replies with his own almost-smile.

They work quietly for a while as the sun beats its rays against L.J.’s neck, and he rolls his shoulders, enjoying its warmth. It’s easy not to think too hard about anything in particular while they’re up here, but he still feels jittery and can’t keep one foot from tapping erratically against the side of the roof. The shaky feeling that runs through him constantly dulls down a bit and it’s about as close to relaxed as L.J. can really remember how to be. Michael glances at him and then starts speaking again.

“I once took apart the entire kitchen sink,” he says, eyes back on the task between them. “I was nine. Wanted to see how it all worked. Your dad absolutely lost it when he saw what I’d done.”

And again L.J. perks up and starts listening when his father is mentioned, wondering what’s bringing on these reminisces but too afraid that they’ll stop if he asks.

“So did mom, actually. Called a plumber to come fix it all before I had the chance to put it back together. Your dad thought I’d lost my mind, but I still say I could’ve done it myself,” Michael declares with a triumphant glint in his eyes that begins to fade a moment later when he must realize that there’s no one left to argue the story with him.

L.J. considers this for a long moment, and he’s pretty sure that it’s not going to go very well but he still can’t keep himself from asking, “did you want to marry her?” Because for some reason he just needs to know.

Michael, of course, hedges at that and almost lets go of the hammer in his hand.

“L.J.…” he says carefully, but L.J. won’t have it today.

He tries attacking from a different angle, switching to yet another subject. “Did Dad… did he say much about me? I mean when you guys were at Fox River, or after, on the run – you knew we’d been… right? When you were in Sona?”

“L.J.,” Michael repeats, more of a warning this time.

“I just – I just want to know, I feel like I was so out of it for a while there and I’ve been wondering about you guys and about Sara and – ”

“L.J. _stop_ ,” Michael says pleadingly, his voice suddenly so low and desperate that L.J. breaks off from his ramble.

“But I – ”

“Please.”

 _But I **need** to_ , he doesn’t say. Because Michael looks suddenly like he’s about to break and L.J. doesn’t want to be responsible for that, but why, why can’t he talk about it? Why is his father an okay subject to be broached (albeit with some care, it seems), but not Sara? L.J. throws his own hammer off of the roof and glares angrily at his uncle as he listens to it hit the sand with a soft _crunch_. Michael doesn’t look back at him as L.J. climbs down the latter and goes inside to look for a new puzzle.

“I just didn’t really know her is the thing,” L.J. whispers into the darkness of the room (what has become “their” room at this point) later that night, when he’s not quite sure that his uncle is even sill awake. “Not until the end.”

He stops and waits – waits for Michael to shush him once again, waits for the inevitable objection, and listens as Michael’s breath grows a bit more ragged and quick. But nothing is said, so he continues carefully.

“She talked about you guys like she’d known you forever, she even talked to me like she knew me, and I liked her. I really – really didn’t – ” and suddenly his voice breaks and out of nowhere he’s crying and he’d tried so hard to just speak and get the words all out, but it hurts.

Michael shuffles forward through the darkness to sit next to L.J. on his bed and lay a stiff, tense hand on L.J.’s shoulder. L.J. needs something more from him, though, and he’s sick to death of walking on eggshells around the man who is supposed to be taking care of him. He dives forward and wraps his arms around Michael, burying his face in his uncle’s chest as he makes a slobbery mess of speaking.

“She wanted – she tried to keep me calm and she talked to me, and she told me stories and made stupid jokes, talked about how you tried to keep her calm and make her feel better during those riots at Fox River. And – and she was really nice,” L.J.’s voice cracks and he sounds like a child in a fit of hysteria, his speech unable to catch up with itself as he hiccups and sobs into his uncle’s shirt. “And they – I don’t _**understand**_ , Uncle Mike, I – she didn’t do anything and I didn’t do anything and they – she talked to me almost all the time and I was really scared but she was there too and she talked to me and told me jokes and talked about you and Dad and then they – ”

He pictures her terrified eyes and her screams, pictures her cringing away from her murderer, holding up her hands in a vain last ditch-attempt to protect herself, and he pictures her head, bloody and torn up, lying several feet away from her body, and he can’t say the words out loud. He won’t ever be able to speak them.

“And then she was gone and I was just _alone_ and I heard – heard her screaming and – ”

His cries overpower the words then, and he feels like he might pass out as he sags and hiccups and digs his hands into Michael’s arms, his nails raking and clawing at flesh as his body searches desperately for an outlet to his anguish. Michael says nothing and tightens his grip as L.J. screams his pain and tears at Michael’s arms.

When L.J. has cried himself into a dull mass of ache, Michael begins speaking in a choked bit of whisper that sounds so very unlike him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry she – that happened, that I got her involved. And you. That was never part of the plan and it got so out of control and I was never… never able to recover. I should’ve been able to keep in control of the situation, or at least adapt. I thought I was smarter than that, thought I was smart enough, but I…”

It sounds so perfectly rehearsed that L.J. is sure now of what his uncle has been doing and thinking about these past weeks since their arrival here. Michael is unable to say what L.J. knows he means to, that _I got them killed_ , and all L.J. can reply is simply, “No. No you didn’t.”

Because just as surely as he’ll never forget the sight of his mother’s lifeless body, Michael will never believe that all of this wasn’t his fault, no matter what L.J. or anyone else ever assures him. Some small part of him almost wants to agree, but he has so much anger for those who actually committed the murders that there’s just no energy left to lay false blame with the only person he has left. He’ll curse his uncle for being so distant and unable to provide all of the comfort he so desperately needs, but he knows that all Michael wanted was to get his brother out of harm’s way, and that he never meant for things to spiral so horrifyingly out of control.

And L.J.’s wondered recently which of them has it worse – Michael’s lost a brother, a father, several friends, and a…girlfriend? Lover? Love? Something, while L.J.’s lost both parents, a step-father, and people he might have come to consider as friends if he’d had the chance. He’s pretty sure that wins, and regardless, his being still a kid automatically means he does.

But now he feels a bit of pity for his uncle creep in. Grief, he’s learned in the last few months, is a gargantuan thing to overcome, especially when it cuts so deeply. He’s not sure if one can ever really recover if you mix in that kind of guilt.

“She wasn’t supposed to be involved,” Michael says again. “And your dad – he was supposed to make it out, we were supposed to settle down out here together, but we both knew the risks involved.

“But she wasn’t supposed to be a part of that. She wasn’t ever supposed to be at risk. And that’s because of me. And I just can’t…”

“I have to talk about it.”

He realizes how selfish it is, and he understands why Michael can’t bring himself to talk about her, why he can’t even mention her by name. Whatever they may or may not have been to each other, he’s going to forever feel responsible for her, in a way that he doesn’t quite even for L.J.’s father. But L.J. won’t take the words back.

After all this, everything he’s lost, he should be allowed his sorrow.

“Okay,” Michael replies after several long minutes, and L.J., utterly exhausted, falls asleep soon after despite his best efforts to stay awake and not to waste the opportunity that his uncle is giving him.

The next day Michael drives out to the small town nearby – nearby, but a half-hour’s drive, and L.J. doesn’t want to spend his whole life plastered to his uncle’s side, so he opts to stay behind despite Michael’s objections. He’s not a small child, and he’s sure that he can stand to be left in the house alone for a short time.

He locks the house up tight and begins shaking the moment he hears the car pull away. He spends the whole time that Michael is gone sitting in a crouch beside his bed with a knife in front of him and feeling like a paranoid idiot, and utterly afraid.

When L.J. is finally able to emerge after Michael’s return, he finds a stack of lumber, three books on plumbing and general house construction, and one outdated mathematics textbook. They finish up the roof that afternoon and Michael begins mapping out plans for a porch in back of the house over dinner that evening.

A week later Michael returns from town with another textbook, this one a very, very used edition of world history, and also two books of poetry. He doesn’t say much as he sets them in a stack on top of the math book, just gives a brief mention of the titles to make sure that L.J. knows they’re there, and then heads outside to sort through his tools.

When Michael brings back another math book and a book of short stories three days later, L.J. finally cracks one open and begins paging through.

They start on the porch later that afternoon and L.J. gives up trying to decipher the plans Michael has mapped out on a thick piece of brown construction paper and taped to the side of the house. Michael tells him what he wants, and L.J. does it, and when, a few hours later, tiny beads of sweat are pouring down the side of his face and the late afternoon sun begins to fade into dusk, L.J. asks again if Michael had wanted to marry her.

Michael keeps sawing on a large board and doesn’t look up as he shrugs. “Didn’t really have much time to think about it,” he replies tightly, and L.J. can tell that he’s pushing to get the words out. “And anyway, I only knew her for a little while, and in the midst of circumstances that were decidedly _not_ normal. Who knows what would’ve…”

It’s a stupid thing to ask, but he’s been searching for a label for her, and for her and Michael together, especially as he never really got to see the two of them together but knows that they were important to one another, despite the short period in which they’d been acquainted.

“Plus, I kind of ruined her whole life. No matter what happened, that’s probably something you don’t really get over,” Michael continues, failing to fully execute the sardonic smile that he seems to be shooting for.

“She didn’t blame you,” L.J. says softly, trying to sound fierce and sure. Everything he says lately sounds so very meek. “She trusted you, and Dad.”

He realizes that that was the exact wrong thing to say when Michael freezes and blinks furiously down at the saw that is now shaking in his hand. But Michael doesn’t say anything, or even cut L.J. off this time. He nods and bites his lip, and L.J. asks him if he’s maybe seen any books by Thoreau in town. Michael offers to look the next time he drives out there, mentions that there’s a used bookstore he’s been visiting that’s pretty good and would probably have most anything L.J. would like to read.

L.J.’s dreams are no less intense each night, but he is gradually weaned off of the screaming and crying as he wakes. Most nights when he starts awake he searches frantically through the darkness, and when his eyes rest on his uncle’s form in the bed across the room his panic eases and he usually falls back asleep staring at the rise and fall of Michael’s chest.

When he starts making notes in the margins of a few of his books Michael brings him some notebooks, and when L.J. asks his uncle a few days later to read some of his thoughts on Milton, Michael takes the notebook without question and begins pouring over the words.

On sunny days they work on the deck and talk geometry, philosophy, sometimes biology, and sometimes L.J.’s days in captivity and Michael’s time in prison. Michael hedges at the mention of Sara but chokes back any protests he might have as L.J. explains about how he was so sure that he was going to die too after they took Sara away.

When it rains they stay inside and sit in the living room together. L.J. reads and Michael scribbles in a notebook and sometimes they work on puzzles together, and if they were living somewhere in what L.J. tends to think of as “the real world” – back in some normal existence without conspiracies and murder and mountains of death – that would be really weird.

They fight sometimes, usually about stupid stuff like washing dishes and not leaving things strewn around, and L.J. is prone to bouts of childish fits. Things are thrown, dishes are broken, and he still cries at the drop of a hat, but Michael is always there by the end of the day, in his bed across the room from L.J’s, and L.J. is sure that his uncle is never going to leave him behind.

When they sit in the sun on their half-built deck, two months removed from survival, Michael rattles off a list of political moves that preceded World War II and L.J. listens half-heartedly, mostly wondering how a man who can remember the details of another country’s politics (dates included) needed a tattoo across his body to remind him of the details of his escape plan.

“I thought World War II was all about the Holocaust and Hitler and stuff,” L.J. says. “Pearl Harbor. Hiroshima. Nazis.” A drop of sweat runs down the middle of his back, making him squirm against the heat of the sun.

Michael stares blankly at him and swipes a hand across his forehead to clear the sweat that’s collected there. “Did you even open the book I gave you the other day?” he asks, traces of annoyance hinting faintly in his voice.

“I skimmed it.”

“So did you learn anything in school?” Michael grunts as he shoves a board over with his foot and leans back to rest on his elbows. The tattoo spills out from beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt and he stretches his legs out in front of him. It’s the first time L.J. can remember seeing his uncle lounging in a long time. “Or does all of your knowledge of world events come from movies?”

“Hey, not all of us are a warehouse of useless information like you,” L.J. replies, laying his back against the wood to squint up at the clear sky overhead. “I remember the important stuff. What do I need to know about all the details of European history for anyway?”

“Those who don’t learn from the past are doomed to repeat it,” Michael says in his best “ominous” voice, his mouth tipped up just a bit at the corners.

“Oh god,” L.J. groans. “Now you really sound like a teacher.”

And now Michael does laugh, softly and carefully, like he’s testing the waters, unsure of whether he can let everything out just yet. L.J. glances over and sees that Michael’s eyes are closed as he laughs, and L.J. has a fleeting thought that maybe he reminds Michael of his father.

“Careful, I might start grading you,” Michael replies, and it’s just about the lamest joke ever, but Michael smiles as he says it.

And just like that L.J. is smiling too. It’s kind of weak, but it’s not forced – just _there_ suddenly, his lips tugging back before he even realizes that he’s doing it, and it’s been so long since he’s laughed or smiled that he’s kind of surprised that he even remembers how to do it. But it turns out smiling is like riding a bike, and his body just knows instinctively how.

“As long as there are no tests, we’re good,” he says as he looks over at Michael.

Michael meets his eyes. “Deal.”

L.J.’s smile grows just a bit more as he tips his head back to rest again on the half-built deck and stares up at the sky.

 **-end-**


End file.
